


War Stories

by ivorygraves



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Derek, Past Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Past Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Uneasy Allies, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygraves/pseuds/ivorygraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next time they work together, it's because of Scott.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Stories

* * *

“We were trying to prove our blood wrong.” ― Warsan Shire, _Excuses For Why We Failed At Love_

* * *

_You should’ve listened to me._

This is his first thought. And even though he knows it is a cruel one, he cannot stem the tide of self-righteousness and bottled-up petulance that tells him he’s right. He’s _always_ been right.

“They’ve stabilized her,” Scott tells him. He still has blood on his hands, and his eyes are bright with relief.

“Good,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else there is to say. He can smell her all the way from the other room; she’s warm, and heavy, riddled with drugs and the sickly stench of the dying. He tries to picture her, bandaged and battered in that hospital bed. Yet all he can imagine is that night in that bank vault (what seems so long ago now) and how her brown eyes glittered with barely repressed rage and resentment towards him; how they circled each other like wolves fighting for dominance. But he cannot reconcile that girl with the broken one lying in the ICU, cannot imagine the hunter without the knife. _You’re lucky you didn’t die_ , he thinks, and it’s his second cruel thought of the night.

Because this is how it always ends. And even though it’s come to pass that she’ll survive this, there is no telling what will finally take her in the future. Not all first loves end softly.

He listens to her heartbeat and the whirling of machines keeping her alive.

* * *

They collide - literally - months later.

( _And later, you will picture her just like this: hair flying in the wind, dagger still drawn, the lines and dips of her face set in sharp determination as she breathes deeply and looks at you. You will hold her in your arms - a mockery of an embrace - and that, you will think, has always been the crux of it._ )

The creatures chase Allison out through the opening in the trees, and in the scope of a heartbeat, she’s launched herself right into his side and they topple to the ground.

“What are you _doing_?” he snarls at her, wanting to push her away while keeping a firm grip on her. This is how they work; an equal force trying to overcome inertia.

She stares at him with bright, wild eyes, dagger held up against his throat before a wave of recognition floods her face. “ _Run!_ ” is all she says in return, ripping out of his arms and darting to another hiding spot.

And while it is not a betrayal, Derek still imagines a knife between his ribs.

He lifts himself off the ground and turns to face the monsters closing in on him. Their twisted, grotesque features remind him of hyenas scavenging for flesh; he feels his claws and fangs slip out and slashes one in the throat before another sinks its teeth into his arm -

“Derek! Get down!”

\- and as he goes hurtling to the ground, all he hears is a wet yelp before it gives way to faint, dying whimpers.

The arrow rests lodged in its heart.

Allison releases another shot, and Derek jumps up again, wrenching and clawing at the remaining enemies.

The corpses lay strewn across the dirt.

Allison comes to meet him, steps so quiet she could’ve been a ghost. “I told you to run,” she says. She looks at the bloody mess the creature made of him and frowns; something like concern flits across her features for an instant before it falls away to clinical precision. “Your arm -”

He narrows his eyes at her. “It’ll heal,” he says brusquely. He doesn’t need or want her help, and the sooner they leave this night behind them, the sooner they can go back to pretending the other doesn’t exist. “Why didn’t you shoot them _before_?” he asks, knowing it sounds accusatory and not giving a damn.

Allison’s jaw clenches, but she does not falter. “There were too many. I needed more ground on them. They attacked me further back and I couldn’t rely on my knives, so I was trying to find a way to outrun them or scale a tree somehow.” She gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t mention his injury again. Instead she glances back at the bodies on the ground. “What were those things?” she asks quietly, like she’s speaking to herself instead of to him.

He answers anyway. “Ghouls. Probably scavenging for dead bodies.”

Allison bites her lip in thought. “Makes sense,” she says. But he can read the lines of tension despite her show of calm. “Do you think there’s more?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably.”

This is the only unspoken truce they know - ask a question, get an answer. Don’t expect more.

He considers her for a moment, eying her warily. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

And Allison goes rigid at that, body drawn like an arrow being notched. “I was visiting _family_ ,” she snaps, stressing the last word as if it’s supposed to mean something to him. “Is that a problem?”

“Interesting choice of clothing,” Derek retorts. “Do you always bring your weapons to an Argent family reunion?”

For a moment he thinks Allison is going to reach for her dagger again, but instead she takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes. He watches her coiled fists rest against her sides.

“It’s Beacon Hills,” she says simply. Her eyes and hands open again. “Going anywhere at night without some kind of protection is going to get you killed. You take your claws everywhere with you, don’t you?”

He doesn’t respond.

Allison narrows her gaze on him. “What were _you_ doing out here?”

Derek smiles darkly, humorlessly. “‘Visiting family.’”

“They’re out here?” Allison’s brows shoot up in surprise.

“No. Because there’s nothing _left of them_ ,” he hisses. “I heard something in the woods. I was looking into it and found my way here.”

A flash of emotion flickers across Allison’s face before it disappears. “You know,” she starts, “my dad told me about what you did at the Sheriff’s station.”

Derek just stares at her, startled by the sudden change in subject. He feels the anger fade, if only a little, replaced by confusion. “It was nothing.”

“No,” she says. “It wasn’t.”

Derek swallows thickly. “I reacted without thinking.”

“Even if you did, I just wanted to say thank you.” Allison’s gaze does not waver, and he makes sure his doesn’t either, if only not to give up any ground. “You could’ve just let him die,” she whispers, but he still catches it. _He’s all I have left_ is unspoken, but it hangs in the air between them.

“I’m a predator,” he tells her. “It doesn’t mean I have to be a killer.”

He meant for it to be biting, for it to lodge itself somewhere deep inside her and fester, but Allison just smiles, and it completely throws him to know he, of all people, put it there. “Bye, Derek,” is all she says before she turns and walks away.

He stands alone in that cemetery for a long time.

* * *

The next time they work together, it’s because of Scott.

Allison stares at him from the entrance of the loft, drenched from the rain and eyes shining with violence. “He needs us,” she says.

And just like that, they are set into motion. He doesn’t bother demanding of her why _she_ needs his help, or what she expects him to do, or even how she knows what happened to Scott. What he does do is grab his jacket and car keys before following her into the rainfall.

It’s easy when they’re like this. They don’t speak. Instead, he listens to her talking to an increasingly distressed Stiles on the phone as they plan out a location to meet up and figure out a plan. When they hang up, she still doesn’t look at him, opting to stare out the window instead. For a moment he remembers when he first met her at that party. A sheltered, innocent teenage girl, all gentle beauty and probing questions. She does not carry that tonight; her hair falls in a wild mess against her cheekbones, clothes muddy and torn. He notices she’s shivering but trying not to. Her fingers knead around each other as she tries to soak warmth into them. Her heart leaps.

He tries not to listen.

( _She’ll look at you from her periphery and do the same thing later - rub her arms with cold, battered fingers, across the ghost of bruises you left long ago. Your heart will leap, and you will hope she’ll try not to listen._

 _You left this weakness behind a long time ago._ )

“Tell me,” he demands after a period of silence.

She finally turns to him and pulls out an empty bullet shell and crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. She unfolds it and smooths out the creases before she begins to read it to him. He tries to ignore the way her voice shakes.

The Calaveras took Scott.

Because of her.

Underneath the scent of dirt and rain, he smells her guilt. He wants to blame her, and he does, but her bowed head keeps him from spitting accusations at her. He grits his teeth and instead focuses on blaming the hunters that took Scott. It reminds him of the sick flow of blood and power racing between his fingertips after he’d slashed his uncle’s throat. “ _Why_?” he asks finally, ignoring all his splintering thoughts.

“I changed our code.” Allison lifts her head. “They’re trying to bait me.”

“They’re trying to wage war,” Derek bites out. He tries to stem the onslaught of questions blaring in his mind, but picks out one at random. “You changed the code?”

She mumbles something in French at him. _We protect those who can’t protect themselves._

He snorts. “I can see why they’re offended.”

“You know French?” she asks, surprised.

“Enough to get by.”

He can’t see it, but he knows she’s still looking at him from the corner of her eye.

* * *

When they rescue Scott, Allison holds him in her arms.

Derek tries not to look at them, but finds that he can’t tear his eyes away.

“It’s okay,” Scott tells her. His eyes flicker in pain. “I’m okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers to him. She holds his hand and squeezes it tightly, as if she can still be his anchor. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t --”

“Allison,” Scott interrupts. Allison falls quiet. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Allison smiles through her tears. “Yeah,” she laughs breathlessly. “Me too.”

Stiles comes up behind him and grips his shoulder. “Help me get him into the car?” he asks.

Derek glances at the hand on his shoulder and then at Stiles’ face. He looks behind him and sees the rest of the group moving closer to them, flanked on all sides, tired and injured but still alive. He feels a strange mixture of pride and longing stirring in his chest as he looks at all of them.

And then he nods, finally uprooted, and kneels down beside Allison.

“We’re taking you home,” he tells Scott.

“Cool,” Scott says and smiles. “You guys actually make a pretty good team.”

Allison looks at him.

Derek looks back.

* * *

He notices how her movements teeter on the edge between graceful and frantic. The sound of her heartbeat pounds in his temples, like a head-splitting migraine; he can’t drown it out. He does not know why she smells so sick with fear, or the reason behind her quaking hands, but he understands why she hides it.

She doesn’t want to appear weak.

He watches her draw the bowstring back. Her hands steady. She aims at the flimsy paper target a hundred yards away. Fires.

He takes a step towards her.

She hears his approach and already her hand is moving for another arrow before she realizes it’s him. “Derek.” The way she says his name is less of a greeting and more of a reminder. He can’t tell if she sounds relieved or wary. “What are you doing out here? You shouldn’t be sneaking up on me when I’m practicing.”

“What made you change it?” he asks her.

Allison startles slightly, blinking wide eyes at him before they return to their usual steady calm. “It just didn’t seem right anymore,” she says simply. “After… everything.”

He raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I made a lot of mistakes,” she says. “This is my way of fixing them.”

Derek scoffs. “Some things can’t be fixed,” he says. He tries to sound angry, but he can’t hide the bitterness in his voice.

“You’re right,” she agrees. “But shouldn’t I try anyway?”

He doesn’t reply.

* * *

They begin a tentative alliance.

It’s built on a foundation of violence, grief and blood, but it’s the only thing they have to start from.

He still does not trust her. He cannot separate her from that image of a woman aiming an arrow at his face, cannot see her without seeing Erica and Boyd broken and begging for mercy, or Isaac lying deathly still in a pool of his own blood. He still cannot look at her without seeing another woman, and she cannot look at him without seeing a monster who killed her mother. Perhaps, in the end, it’s all the same thing.

They start meeting each other in the preserve to deal with the current supernatural threats.

They don’t talk about the Calaveras, or the code, or the way Allison held Scott. After that last moment of honesty between them, he feels more caught off-guard than ever, like they’d used up their quota of meaningful dialogue and descended into fragile civility.

And perhaps he’s not being entirely truthful.

He thinks of Scott and how he loves her. He thinks of her kneeling beside him, whispering words of warmth into the hollow of his neck. _I’m here_ , she said. _I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault._

And there’s something about that image. Something so bright and distant, captured in a moment he could never touch. It makes him feel foolish.

When Allison breathes, he thinks of her in that hospital.

At some point, he falls into step beside her. They don’t talk about it the next morning.

* * *

He is angry.

“What were you _thinking_?” he snarls at her. A distant part of him revels in this feeling, of this all-consuming rage that thrums through every part of him; he can feel his blood pounding in his ears, his veins, through the broken flesh of his palms as his nails tear them open. It stops him from reaching out and shaking her. “You should’ve _listened to me._ ”

The woods around them are silent. They managed to put distance between themselves and the pack of invading werewolves, but he knows they’re still nearby. Every nerve in Derek’s body tells him to run, to leave her here and save himself. But his anger anchors him to the spot.

Allison looks just as angry as he does. Blood coats her hand as she holds it tightly against the wound in her shoulder. “Are you going to stand there and yell at me all night?” she snaps, her voice tight.

He grits his teeth and kneels beside her, hovering. The smell of her blood invades all of his senses at once. He pulls his shirt off and wraps it around her arm in an awkward makeshift bandage. He resolutely ignores the sudden chill hitting his skin and the feeling of vulnerability as he sits there in nothing but his wifebeater. “Do you have something for this?” he asks.

“No. And even if I did, it’s not safe to do it here,” she replies. “I need to get home. My dad has medical supplies there.”

He nods, still unsatisfied and irate, but he lets out the breath he’d been holding in. “I’ll carry you.”

“ _What_?” She stares at him in overt disbelief. “I can walk by myself. I don’t -”

She stops and winces as Derek folds her up in his arms. He feels her tensing under his grip and uselessly tries to touch her as little as humanly possible before he’s meeting her eyes again. She stares at him through a curtain of dark hair, her face pinched in discomfort despite trying to hide it from him.

He knows she is in pain.

So he runs.

“I can _walk_ ,” she insists, instinctually curling up against his chest as an onslaught of wind hits her face and the trees ahead of them snap into view before whipping past.

“I’m faster,” Derek replies simply. “We need to get away from them.”

Allison looks like she’s about to argue before she falls silent again. They both know he’s right.

He pushes them forward with inhuman speed, evading branches and pits in the uneven terrain. The forest breaks and dips into the valley ahead of them.

Derek leaps without a second thought. Allison curses and unwittingly reaches up to grip at his shirt.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Derek says suddenly.

He glances down and can’t see her expression at first, but when she turns to look at him, her brows are drawn tightly together. “Done what?” she asks.

“Taken the hit,” he replies, wanting to roll his eyes at her. “It was for me. I _told_ you to get out of the way.” The image of her shoving him out of the way of the werewolf’s claws flashes behind his eyes. He tries to push it away, but the memory of the look on her face - of her crying out when those claws slashed her clean across the shoulder shakes him to the core.

He wants her to live, if only to tell her how _stupid_ she is.

“Last time I checked, you’re not in charge of _anything_ I do. Maybe you should be grateful for once.”

“ _Grateful_?” He practically spits out the word. “That’s just what I want to be. Grateful to an _Argent_.”

Allison flinches and abruptly angles her body away from his as best she can. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you saved my dad,” she murmurs.

When they reach her house, Chris already seems to know what’s happening.

“Get her inside,” he snaps.

“Dad,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“We shouldn’t even _be_ here, Allison,” Chris tells her as he begins to gently peel Derek’s blood-soaked shirt off her shoulder. “I have contacts. We could -”

“We can’t,” Allison says. “We can’t just leave Beacon Hills behind. You promised me.”

Even though she doesn’t say it, he can hear her voice. _We can’t just leave my friends behind. I can’t leave Scott behind._

Chris sighs. “We’ll talk more about this later.” He looks up at Derek. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he replies stiffly. He suddenly feels uncomfortable now that the attention has been turned to him. “I should go.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Chris says by way of farewell. Turning to Allison, he says, “I need to get my kit from upstairs. I’ll be right back. Keep your shoulder covered,” before hurrying away.

“Well,” Allison says dryly. “I guess you won’t be getting your shirt back.”

Derek snorts despite himself. “As if I’d _want_ it back.”

Allison pauses for a moment. “I could wash it for you,” she says quietly.

And just like that, the entire night seems to unravel between them. All the charged words and violent accusations give way to this gentle, hesitant truce. Derek finds himself struck with how sincere she looks.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says finally. “Just - keep it. I don’t need it.” He steps toward her and reaches out a hand, gently resting it against her forearm.

Allison tenses in surprise and grabs his wrist instinctually. He can see the dawning realization on her face and knows the exact moment she feels rather than sees the evidence of her pain traveling up his arm in thick black bands. She lets out a quiet, relieved breath, like something’s been lifted from her. “You don’t need to do that,” she starts dubiously, and he rolls his eyes like he can tell she’s going to fight him. But she just finishes with a soft, “I owe you.”

“No, you don’t,” he says firmly.

He takes her pain and carries it with him.

He can still feel it hours later.

* * *

She kills them.

She stands silhouetted against the stars and the dying light of the fire her explosive arrow caused. One of her hands is curled tightly around her dagger. It is stained with blood. She is stained with blood.

It is the most brutal he has ever seen her.

He looks at the bodies of the ghouls and Lydia’s stricken expression as she lay curled up against the tree. His heart is pounding in his chest. He does not know what to do.

“ _Allison_?” Lydia asks in a high voice, as if she’s trying not to cry. She sounds raw from screaming. “Sweetie, put the knife down.”

Allison is silent. For a moment, she does not move. Her head is tilted to the ground, her dark, blood-matted hair covering her face as she stares at the bodies. He can see her hand shaking around her dagger. She quivers under the moonlight, and it reminds him of the feeling he gets just before escaping his skin.

Lydia stands up on weak limbs and tentatively moves toward Allison.

“ _Wait_ ,” Derek warns, but she ignores him.

“Allison,” Lydia says again, gently, knowingly, eyes lit up by the dying embers. “I’m safe now. You don’t have to fight.” She reaches up and touches her hand, the one with the dagger, and carefully lowers it until it’s at her side. “I don’t know where you went. But come back.”

Slowly, Allison looks up. Even though she’s looking at Lydia straight in the face, her eyes look faraway, cast into some unknowable distance. Fresh blood wets her cheeks.

“I’m here,” Lydia says.

“Lydia?” Allison asks quietly. Her tone is questioning, as if she isn’t entirely sure where she is.

“I’m here,” Lydia repeats. She tugs the dagger out of her hand and lets it fall to the forest floor before pulling Allison into her embrace. She snakes a hand into Allison’s hair and gathers her close, until Allison’s head is resting against her shoulder. She does not care about the blood, or the violence, or the death that hangs in the air between them. Instead, she just holds her like she did with Jackson so long ago, envelops her with her love and tender understanding. “You came for me. You always do.”

“Oh, my god,” Allison breathes. Her eyes are pinned to the bodies just over Lydia’s shoulder. “I… I didn’t -”

“Don’t look,” Lydia tells her.

Allison looks anyway.

Behind them, Scott, Isaac, Kira and Stiles emerge from the woods.

Their eyes instantly move to the butchered corpses before looking at the embracing pair.

Scott’s horrified gaze travels to him, but all he can do is shake his head.

“ _God_ ,” Stiles breathes, but does not look away. His bat hangs limply at his side. “I think they were dead after the twentieth stab.”

Kira stares at the sight before her before carefully sheathing her sword.

“ _Allison_?” Scott addresses her this time. His eyes are blown wide with shock and trepidation. Isaac does not say anything, but he’s looking straight at Allison as well, expression curiously blank but heart hammering wildly in his chest.

Allison looks at them and almost can’t speak. “I…” she begins. She swallows and pulls out of Lydia’s embrace. “I thought I was someone else,” she murmurs. “I thought this was a nightmare.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asks gently. “Who did you think you were?”

“Kate,” Isaac speaks for the first time. “You're still seeing visions of your aunt.”

Derek feels his blood run cold.

Allison lets out a shaky breath. “Yes,” she whispers.

They all fall silent for a moment.

Lydia is the first to speak. “Come on,” she says.

Everyone but Allison glances up at her in question.

Lydia looks at them all like they’re stupid. “We have to get rid of the bodies.” She gestures to the evidence around them. Her hair glints a golden-red under the moon. Her eyes shine in determination he knows has always been there but had never quite seen from her before. The ghouls’ blood is smeared over her face and she wears it like it’s one of her cosmetics. “Help me.”

They do.

* * *

Later, he goes to her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands.

Allison does not reply at first, but he knows she heard him. Then, slowly, she turns to face him. Her eyes are focused and present in the moment, but he can read the exhaustion in every line of her. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“You’ve been keeping this from me for months,” he says. He feels disgust well up inside him until it tips over. “I’ve been following you in the woods for _months_ , alone, and you couldn’t have mentioned at some point that you were seeing _Kate’s ghost_? Or that it might make you fly into a murderous rage? Or were you going to wait until you’d already killed me like you did to those things?”

Allison abruptly twists around and sneers at him. Apparently they are going to do this _right now_ , and he is fucking ready. “That’s rich, coming from you, considering you never tell anyone _anything_.”

“I tell you all you need to know!”

“ _Right_ , just like how you told Isaac, Boyd and Erica they were being groomed to be your little soldiers.”

He knows he’s raising his voice. He knows he’s getting far too close to her. He knows he’s teetering on the edge between humanity and his claws bursting out of his nail beds, but he just _does not care_.

“You’re one to fucking talk. Everything I did? It was for _survival_. But you _liked_ it, didn’t you?” He gets up into her personal space until his chest is practically flush against her, until they’re sharing breath. “You liked feeling _powerful_ , just like her.”

Allison’s eyes burn into his. And then, quietly, without looking away, she says, “At least I wasn’t sleeping with her.”

Derek flinches like he’s been burned.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” she asks. “I thought I was just going crazy, or that it was some made-up thing in my nightmares, but it’s true.”

He glares at her steadily and tries not to slam his fist into anything. “She used me to get to my family.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I was used too.”

He looks at her.

She looks back.

And he hates it. He hates the way she’s looking at him now - not quite condescending enough to be pity but gentle enough to make him uncomfortable. Like she’s turning him over in her hands, examining every faultline, determining every crack and vulnerability in his chassis like he’s going to fall apart any second.

Maybe she’s thinking the same thing about him.

She’s still staring. And the worst part is that he _should_ see Kate in her. But he doesn’t. Not now.

Not when every part of her smells like salt and regret.

Not when the sound of her heartbeat floods his senses so entirely it drowns out everything else.

Not when she looks like she’s on the cusp of forgiving him.

It’s too much.

Derek is the first to turn away. “Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“You were right,” Allison says, “about feeling powerful.”

His brows shoot up in surprise.

“I asked her to help me,” she continues. “Everyone around me seemed to be in on this huge dangerous secret, and I…” She pauses and shrugs. “I didn’t want to feel weak anymore. I wanted to be able to protect myself.”

He folds his arms over his chest, a self-conscious gesture more than anything else.

“So Kate and my dad taught me. I was a quick learner. And if I’m being honest with myself, I did like the feeling that came with it.” She glances down at her hands for a moment before looking back at him. “When my mom died, it felt good to let my anger and hate out on everyone else. At the time, I thought I was avenging her. I thought if I could just hurt them, I wouldn’t have to feel hurt, or angry, or scared anymore. I thought it would be enough. But it wasn’t. Even now, I’m _still_ terrified, all the time. I keep thinking about what might happen to Scott or my dad. I keep having these dreams of Kate where she wants me to help her kill Isaac or you and when I wake up again I have to remind myself I’m _not_ her. That I’m different.” The skin around her eyes tightens. “I’m sorry about what she did to your family,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry about what _I_ did to you.”

Derek stares at her in stunned silence.

“I know we can’t start over,” she goes on. “But I’m ready to move on. I still want to uphold my own code. I still want to keep Beacon Hills and everyone in it safe. Just like you do.” She pauses and gives him a steady look. “Will you help me?”

For a moment, he does not know what to say. Every part of him feels strangely numb as he works through the thick lump in his throat. He picks up the shattered vestiges of his hatred for her and finds he no longer knows what to do with it.

Helplessly, he wonders what his mother would think.

“Okay,” he says finally.

* * *

( _When she comes to you one night, she is shaking and small and sad, so unlike the Allison Argent you have come to know over the past year. Her hair is limp on her head, and her eyes hold a distant, deadened quality to them that you can only assume is due to nightmares._

_You let her into your loft. This is your first mistake._

_You ask her your questions and let her sit on your couch as if she’s a long-time friend ravaged by a battle she cannot win. You give her a glass of water and she looks at you as if she’s seeing you for the first time, like you’ve never hurt her, like you’ve never held her so tightly in that bank vault she had to hide the evidence on her arms for days, like you’ve never marked her with anything other than this. She looks at you as if you understand._

_You stand there awkwardly in your own home and mumble something about her going to Scott. Or Isaac. Or Lydia. Or literally anyone else but you._

_You do not comfort. It is not something you were built for._

_You were not meant to witness this. You were not meant to see her at her weakest. You were not meant to see her so lost. You were not meant to look at an Argent and see someone worth saving._

_But then again, there’s a lot you aren’t meant for. Perhaps, like her, you do not believe in fate._

_As tired as she is, you notice she’s actually quite pretty, silhouetted against the light pouring through the window. It reminds you of how you once loved Kate, in your own messed up, young, vulnerable way; it reminds you of the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed and the way she smiled at you and the way her golden curls glowed in the sunlight. It would probably look similar in front of a fire._

_But she is not Kate. You know that._

_This is your second mistake._

_She tells you she does not want to worry her friends. She will not be long. She just needs time. She just needs to pull herself together._

_You stare at her for a moment, arms crossed over your chest as you consider what it would cost you to be more than what you were meant to be._

_Hesitantly, you sit next to her._

_“They go away eventually,” you tell her. When she looks at you in confusion, you clarify. “The nightmares.”_

_She smiles humorously. “Pretty sure this is a little different. Deaton said it would never go away.”_

_“It will,” you insist, and she looks surprised. “It did for me.”_

_You sit in silence for a long time._

_When she finally turns to look at you, you look right back. This is your third mistake._

_“Derek,” she whispers._

_She leans forward - or maybe it’s you - and suddenly your hands are pulling her closer, and her fingers are threading through your hair, and your mouths are colliding and your lips are pressing against each other so hard in something that’s not quite a kiss but not violent enough to be a fight._

_You pull away from her and stare at her in shocked silence. Your breathing is fast._

_She looks back at you, serene and slightly sad, lips bruised and skin reddened from where you dragged your stubble across it._

_“Please,” she says. Her heart leaps, and you give up not listening._

_You fall into her._ )

* * *

It is not about love.

He is under no illusions. He does not look at her with the same all-consuming, tender affection like Scott does. He is not sweet, or kind, or gentle. He does not dwell in naive notions of ‘forever’ and ‘always’. He knows this is a mistake.

He is all harsh hands and sharp teeth digging into her flesh. As he fucks her into his mattress she claws at his back, trailing bloody lines down his body like rivers flowing south. The angry welts disappear almost as soon as she leaves them behind, but the blood remains until he’s not sure if it’s hers or his anymore. He kisses like he’s trying to prove something, like they’re tumbling her over some bright edge that neither of them can see. He thinks of all the women he once loved, or thought he did, and how their bodies now take root under the earth. He thinks of his fear and his guilt and his destructive tendencies and briefly considers that this - _he_ \- will ruin her, before it falls away. She is a small war he’s never been able to win.

When she comes, she does not stay. He watches her bite her lip and awkwardly tug her hair behind her ear as she picks up her clothing scattered across the room. She tells him this was a mistake.

That does not stop it from happening again.

She is straddling his hips and his hands are curled around her breasts, burying himself in her over and over again like a goddamn litany. The obscene sounds of flesh against flesh fill his ears until he can barely breathe, until he comes so hard he clings to her like she’s the only thing that can keep him anchored. Above him, she stills, coming so quietly he almost misses the way she quivers in his arms. For a brief moment they both sit there, silent and panting against each other before she pulls off of him. They glance at each other and he does not see her smile, but she looks flushed and satisfied and he suspects he looks the same.

This time she is below him again, wrapping her legs around his hips and pulling him closer, closer, closer, until his chest is flush against hers and he notices a pale smattering of freckles over her nose for the first time. She does not notice at first - her head is thrown back and her lips are slack with pleasure, until she opens her eyes and sees him staring at her. She frowns and looks away and he pulls back, tugging her hips onto his and instead watches as his cock disappears with every thrust between her legs.

One time he eats her out and she pulls on his hair so hard his claws almost come out. But when he looks up at her, her eyes are glassy and clouded over, face flushed and brows drawn together in tension - or maybe it’s confusion - as she stares at him with a look so intense he feels his cock throb against the bedsheets. He carefully pulls her hands out of his hair, holds them against the mattress and smirks at her. She rolls her eyes as he presses quick, stubbly kisses against her inner thighs before his tongue slips into her folds and her hips push off the bed to meet him. But he keeps her still and all she can do is gasp against the onslaught of his tongue and lips and warm palms. Her hands shoot up to grip at his, searching for some kind of purchase, until his fingers are folding around hers in return. His tongue closes around her clit and she breathes out a strangled _fuck_ and he’s never wanted to kiss her more than right this second.

So he does. He leaves searing kisses against her skin as he travels up her body, biting gently at her nipples before he notices the angry scar in the valley between her breasts left behind by the oni. He pauses just long enough for her to shift in discomfort. In a strange show of tenderness, he lingers over the spot and kisses her there.

Her hands weave through his hair again and he gazes up at her quietly. She smiles softly and tells him it just narrowly missed her heart.

 _Yes_ , he thinks. He can hear it now.

She starts staying the night.

Most of the time they have sex, and other times they sleep. Sometimes they talk.

She tells him about her dad, and how he wants her to go away for college. She tells him about how things with Isaac just didn't work out, about what it felt like forming the calluses on her palms, about how she keeps a box of her failures underneath her bed, about how she grew up never staying in one place and how she feels like something is coming but she can’t tell what it is. She tells him about Lydia’s struggle for self-actualization, Kira’s gentle understanding, Isaac’s need to belong, Stiles’ feelings of guilt, Scott’s hope for peace that tethers them all together.

“He wants to help me,” she tells him. “He’s trying not to look at me differently. Since that night I killed the ghouls.”

“He loves you,” he says simply.

“We broke up. He’s with Kira now.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She lays pressed against him for awhile, content to leave the conversation there. Her dark hair pools over the pillows. Her scent washes over him and clings to every inch of his loft. It’s overwhelming.

He rolls over, knowing it won’t help.

He feels her tracing his tattoo.

He closes his eyes.

* * *

“This is pathetic,” Peter says. “ _Another_ Argent?”

“Back off,” Derek snaps. “It’s none of your business.”

“None of my business?” Peter echos. “Do you remember the last time you got into bed with an Argent? Does the fire that killed our entire family ring any bells?”

Derek stays silent. He swallows against the lump in his throat and stares at the coffee table in front of him. He knows Peter is sneering at him, knows he’s goading him into a reaction.

“Oh,” Peter says. “That’s rich. _Now_ you don’t want a fight.”

“I’m not the one who shows up here uninvited.” Derek lifts his head to give him a steely glare. “If it’s so _offensive_ to you, then maybe you should leave.”

“ _Offensive_?” Peter says incredulously. “More like _idiotic_. Say what you want about my mistakes, but at least I don’t make them more than once. An Argent has never hesitated to betray one of us when it suited them.”

“She’s not Kate,” Derek says before he can stop himself.

They both stare at each other in deadlocked silence.

Peter’s face contorts into some new emotion, one that teeters on the edge between rage and hysteric amusement. “My, my, _Derek_ ,” he says, a mocking smile lighting up his face. “Are you in love with her? Is that what’s happening here?”

“Of course not!”

“No?” Peter asks. “I can hear the change in your heartbeat. It must be hard, especially considering how you bit her mother. Did you apologize for that, by the way? Did you cry in each other’s arms? You’ve always been _so bad_ at staying unattached.”

“ _Get out_.”

“You know, I wonder what Scott would say if he knew about your little tryst. _Does_ he know? It’d be hard not to. This place _reeks_ of her.”

Derek growls at him in wordless hostility. He knows his eyes are glowing blue, but he can’t be bothered to stop it.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Peter says. “Poor little Derek. You can never just have something for yourself, can you? You always have to take it from others.”

“Shut up!” Derek stalks closer to his uncle, lips pulled back in a snarl. “ _You’re_ the one who killed Laura for her alpha powers!”

“And you killed me for mine,” Peter says, deadly quiet. “Funny how that works.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees. “Yes, you did.”

Silence descends upon them, and for a moment, the only sound he can hear is his own heavy breathing.

“It won’t last, you know,” Peter says eventually. His tone is so low and quiet that Derek almost can’t hear him over the sound of his own beating heart. “Eventually, she’s going to move on. She’ll get back together with Scott and forget all about you. And where will you be then? No pack, no alpha… you’ll be alone again. Just like you always are. Because no matter how hard you try, Derek, you’re always the piece that doesn’t seem to fit ―”

Derek’s hand comes down around Peter’s neck. His uncle roars in his grasp, reaching up and letting his claws tear through Derek’s arm latched around his throat. Derek grits his teeth and smashes Peter into the wall behind them. He forces his chin up and rests his claws against his jugular. “ _Leave._ ”

Peter chuckles and slowly releases Derek’s arm, hands held up in mock surrender. “All right. No need for a repeat performance.”

Derek lets him go.

Peter massages his neck thoughtfully.

“Go,” Derek commands.

Peter obeys and opens the door to the loft. Taking one last glance over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” before shutting the cold metal door behind him.

* * *

When she attacks him, he is almost relieved.

Relieved, because he can look at her without seeing Allison Argent. He can look at her and feel the blood dripping from where he pulled out one of her arrows. He can look at her cold eyes and brown hair and hands that once touched his triskelion aiming an arrow at his heart and think _it’s her or me_. He can look at her and think that Peter was right.

He wants to think all of that.

But he doesn’t. Not entirely.

Instead, he looks at her and thinks of each of their families and how they both lived and died here. He thinks of her apologizing for a dead woman. He thinks of her laugh and the freckles on her nose. He thinks of the both of them running through the woods together.

He thinks of those who made her, and how they made him too.

“Allison,” he says, staring down her arrow. “You don’t want to hurt me.”

She does not respond. He is not even sure she understands him at all, if she realizes he is even speaking to her.

She is a blank slate.

And she’s going to kill him.

In the back of his mind, he tells himself it would be justified if he kills her. It would be like every other excuse he’s ever used for why he’s failed at being _anything_.

He feels his vision blur. _Wolfsbane_.

He staggers and grits his teeth. So running is out, then.

Shit.

His knees hit the floor and the burning sensation from the wound in his chest festers and spreads ― if she does not kill him, then the poison will.

He tries to hate her for giving in. He really does.

He hears the faint sound of her bowstring ―

― of her shuddering breath ―

― and closing his eyes, he waits for the end ―

Her sudden cry of agony rips through him so violently he almost thinks it’s his.

He snaps his eyes open and stares at the arrow she’s just stabbed through her hand.

Her eyes are wild and she’s bitten clean through her lip from the pain.

“Allison,” he croaks.

She does not respond. Another cry tears through her throat when she twists the arrow harder into her hand, and even in his incapacitated state he can smell her blood and hear the sound of tearing muscles and dislocating bones as she wrenches it into another gruesome direction.

She falls to her knees and for a moment he thinks she’ll pass out, but she does not stop, only keeps the arrow driven through her palm.

He hears it when it goes all the way through.

He feels like he’s going to throw up.

She holds herself still for a few fleeting seconds before she lifts her head up and gazes at him. She is panting hard, tears stinging the edges of her eyes and blood slowly pooling out from her lips. But the despite the pain, he can see it in her eyes: triumph. “Derek,” she says breathlessly.

Allison stands before him in stark contrast.

And then everything fades away.

* * *

He wakes up in the vet clinic.

He tries to move and winces at the pain in his gut.

His memories of the night come flooding back and he wrenches himself up, injuries be damned. Suddenly, Derek hears a startled noise from the corner and lets out an instinctive snarl before he realizes who it is.

He can’t help but look at her.

She’s sitting in a chair and has a blanket thrown haphazardly across her lap, like he’s just pulled her into wakefulness. Her hair lies limpy across her face and he notices she’s wearing the same clothes as before.

He zeros in on her bandaged hand.

She sees what he’s looking at and carefully tucks her hand under the blanket. “Hey,” Allison greets and begins to stand up. “Try not to move too much. You’ll rip out your stitches.”

Derek pauses long enough to give her an incredulous stare.

“It’ll prevent infection while you’re healing,” Allison says patiently.

Derek grimaces and tugs his shirt up to assess the damage. “What happened?” he asks as his hand hovers over the patch job. He grits his teeth when he feels them pulling against his raw flesh - he hates stitches. They always feel so unnatural to him.

“When you passed out, I called my dad and told him to bring one of his bullets,” Allison says. “He came and got us and took us to Deaton’s so we could work on you without - you know.”

“Yeah.” He’s never been a fan of hospitals anyway. He prefers handling his injuries on his own, without the prying eyes and probing questions he can’t answer.

Guilt washes over Allison’s features. “I’m sorry.”

Derek shrugs. “You weren’t yourself.”

“You’re being really calm about the fact I almost killed you.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.” Derek pulls back the thin blanket still hiding her hand. He clasps his fingers around her wrist and tugs it up into his view. “You did this instead.”

“Pain makes you human,” she says quietly.

Derek just nods before looking at her hand. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Allison admits. “Deaton gave me something for it.”

Wordlessly, he begins leaching her pain away. Faint black lines slide through his veins, her hurt dulled with the application of whatever painkiller Deaton gave her. Something about this feels different than usual, more intimate - Derek finds he can’t quite look at her. So he stares at his hand curled gently around her wrist instead.

“Thanks,” she says. “Wish I had that trick.”

“I don’t do it very often.”

“Well, you’ve done it for me more than once now.” She flexes her fingers gently for a moment and frowns. “Derek.”

“What?”

“This can’t happen again,” she says. “Next time, when I start losing control ―”

“Stop,” he says forcefully.

“I’m just saying,” she goes on softly, “you might have to do something about it. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

He knows she’s right. He’s been far less hesitant to eliminate even a suspected threat in the past. Under any other circumstance, he _would’ve_ done something about it.

But it’s _her_.

“So what do you want me to do?” he asks, realizing he sounds defensive. “Kill you?”

Allison lowers her eyes. “If it comes to that.”

“No,” he says. “No way.”

“I don’t want to put it on the others. They wouldn’t be able to do it.”

“So you want to put it on me?”

Allison looks at him in surprise. “I just thought ―”

“I know what you thought,” he says bitterly. “And you’re _wrong_.”

“Okay. Sorry. It doesn’t change that we have a problem, though.”

Derek lets out the breath he’d been holding and notices he’s got a vice-like grip on her wrist. He lets go. “We’ll figure it out.”

Allison smiles. “You sound just like Scott.”

“I’m nothing like Scott.”

“I know,” she says, still smiling. “I know you’re not.”

He gives her a long look. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment.

“For what?”

“Your mother.”

Allison doesn’t say anything, but he sees the way her eyes soften and hears her heart skip.

“I’m not sorry I rescued Scott,” he continues. “But I’m sorry I bit her.”

He does not miss the Argent woman, and never will. But he knows what it means to lose a mother. And when he looks at her, he sees a girl who cannot properly mourn.

He knows that feeling, too.

Allison’s eyes are bright. She opens her mouth to speak, but she stops herself, shaking her head slightly. Finally, she settles on a genuine, “Thank you, Derek,” before reaching out and squeezing his hand with her good one.

He looks down at her hand on his and slowly moves so that their palms are clasped together. Allison’s thumb gently strokes the inside of his wrist - in reassurance, in comfort, out of habit, he can’t tell - and in this moment, she doesn’t feel like an Argent, and he doesn’t feel like a Hale. They’re just Allison and Derek.

He thinks about what Peter asked him before. About being in love with her.

As they sit there in companionable silence, he realizes that he’s not.

But it could be love, one day. If they let themselves.

And maybe that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> For Round 3 of the Teen Wolf Rare Pair Exchange. The parts I used from my recipient's requests were: Derek/Allison, alternate reality (ie canon universe, but different), hurt/comfort, angst, friendship, hand-holding, spending the night together, fighting people together and protecting each other with the pack in the background. I hope this lived up to your expectations! 
> 
> Last but not least, a special thank you to rosweldrmr for the beta. You're the best.


End file.
